Chapter 6: Downstairs, Alone With the Truth
The package sat on the metal table like a bomb waiting to detonate.
It was small—no bigger than a shoebox, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. The kind of package that could hold anything. A book. A bomb. A severed hand.
Roxy had already seen what was inside. Marco had shown her upstairs, in the gatehouse, before Damien had arrived. She'd watched his face go gray when he opened it. She'd watched him drop it on the floor like it had burned him.
Now she stood in the interrogation room with her back against the wall and her eyes on Damien's face as he read the note.
He didn't react. Not visibly. His expression stayed flat, his breathing stayed steady, but she saw something shift behind his eyes—a flicker of something cold and deadly that made the hair on her arms stand up.
"What does it say?" Valentina asked from the doorway.
Damien didn't answer. He folded the note—carefully, deliberately—and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Then he looked at Roxy.
"You," he said. "Downstairs. Now."
She didn't argue. She followed him through the door, down the narrow stairs, into the room where Reyes was still zip-tied to the chair, still sobbing, still begging for his life.
Damien dropped the severed hand on the table.
It landed with a wet thud. Fingers curled. Thumb twisted at an unnatural angle. The skin was gray and waxy, the nails yellowed, the wrist ending in a jagged stump that had been sawed through bone.
Reyes looked at it. Looked at Damien. Looked at the hand again.
Then he started screaming.
The gag muffled it, but not enough. The sound bounced off the concrete walls, filled the room, clawed at Roxy's ears. High and keening and completely animal.
Damien backhanded him.
The blow caught Reyes across the face, snapped his head to the side, silenced him mid-scream. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He whimpered—a small, broken sound—and slumped in the chair.
"Look at it," Damien said.
Reyes shook his head. Tears streamed down his face.
"Look at it."
Reyes looked.
"This is Vicente Cruz's hand," Damien said. "Or what's left of it. The coroner identified it by the scar on his thumb—he had a fight with a broken bottle when he was seventeen. The DNA matches. The dental records match. It's him."
Reyes was shaking so hard the chair rattled.
"So tell me, Tomas, how is it possible that you saw a dead man in your kitchen last week?"
"I don't—I don't know—"
"Did he touch you?"
"What?"
"Did he touch you? Shake your hand? Pat your shoulder? Give you something?"
Reyes's eyes went wide. "He—he shook my hand. When he left. He shook my hand and said—"
"What did he say?"
"He said, 'You'll never see me again.'"
The room went still.
Roxy watched Damien's face. Watched the muscle in his jaw twitch. Watched his hands curl into fists at his sides. He was holding it together—barely—but she could see the cracks forming.
"Get out," he said.
Reyes blinked. "What?"
"Get out. Marco will take you upstairs. You're going to tell him every detail of every conversation you had with Cruz. Every word. Every gesture. Every time he blinked. If I find out you're lying, I'll cut off your other hand and make you watch me feed it to the dogs."
Marco appeared in the doorway. He looked at Roxy—a quick, questioning glance—and she nodded. He stepped forward, cut the zip ties, and hauled Reyes to his feet.
The man was still crying. Still shaking. His legs barely held him as Marco dragged him up the stairs.
The door closed behind them.
Damien stood at the table, his back to her, his shoulders rigid. The hand sat on the metal surface between them, gray and dead and completely impossible.
"Tell me," he said.
"Tell you what?"
"Everything. About Vicente. About what you know."
Roxy pushed off the wall. She walked toward him—slow, measured steps—and stopped on the opposite side of the table. Close enough to see the tension in his neck. Close enough to smell the anger coming off him in waves.
"I don't know anything," she said.
"You're lying."
"I'm not."
"You told me in the study that you knew things. Things you shouldn't know. You said—"
"I said I knew your reputation. I said I'd heard of you. I didn't say I knew about a dead man coming back to life."
Damien turned. His eyes were black—not blue, not sapphire, just black. Bottomless. Furious.
"You didn't bring this into my house?"
"I didn't bring Vicente Cruz back from the grave, Moretti." She met his gaze. Didn't look away. Didn't flinch. "Your wife did."
His hand shot out. Grabbed her by the throat. Slammed her against the concrete wall.
Her head cracked against the stone. Not hard enough to knock her out. Just hard enough to hurt. His fingers dug into her neck—not crushing, not choking, just holding. Just reminding her that he could.
"What did you just say?"
"You heard me."
"Say it again."
"Your wife." She smiled. Blood on her teeth from where she'd bitten her cheek. "You said it yourself. She went to the funeral. She watched them lower the coffin. She's the one who identified the body. If Vicente Cruz is alive, she's the one who lied."
Damien's grip tightened. Then loosened. Then dropped.
He stepped back. Dragged a hand through his hair. Turned away from her—toward the wall, toward the drain in the floor, toward anything but her face.
"If I let you walk out of here tonight," he said, "will you come back?"
"What?"
"Simple question. If I let you walk out, get in a car, drive away—will you come back?"
Roxy touched her throat. She could feel the bruises forming already. Tomorrow they'd be purple. Tomorrow they'd be a reminder of this moment.
"Depends what you're offering," she said.
Damien turned.
He crossed the room in two strides. Grabbed her by the front of her dress—fisted the black lace in both hands—and ripped it down the middle.
The fabric tore like paper. Cool air hit her skin. She was wearing nothing underneath—no bra, no panties. She hadn't bothered after the shower. Hadn't seen the point.
His eyes dropped. Followed the curve of her breasts. The dip of her waist. The dark triangle between her thighs.
"Everything," he said. "I'm offering everything."
"Everything's a big word."
"I know what it means."
"Do you?"
He answered with his hands.
They were rough—rougher than before—gripping her hips, spinning her around, bending her over the table. Her cheek pressed against the cold metal. The severed hand was inches from her face. She could smell it—dead flesh, old blood, something chemical and wrong.
"I'm going to fuck you," he said. "Right here. Right now. And when I'm done, you're going to tell me everything you know about Vicente Cruz."
"I already told you—"
"I know what you told me." He kicked her legs apart. "Now tell me what you didn't."
His cock was already out—already hard—and he didn't waste time. He pushed into her with one brutal thrust, no warning, no preparation. She was wet—wet from the fight, from the fear, from the way he'd looked at her—but not wet enough. It burned. Stretched. Filled her so completely she couldn't breathe.
"That's it," he muttered. "Take it."
She tried to speak. Couldn't.
He pulled out. Pushed back in. Harder. Faster. The table scraped against the concrete floor. The hand wobbled on the edge and fell—landed on the floor with a wet slap.
Roxy didn't care.
She felt every inch of him. Every vein. Every ridge. He was fucking her like he hated her—like he wanted to break her—like she was the only thing standing between him and the truth.
"You knew," he said through gritted teeth. "You knew something was wrong. You knew the second you walked into that dining room."
"I didn't—"
"You knew."
His hand came down on her ass—sharp, stinging, loud. She gasped.
"You knew about Valentina. You knew about the funeral. You've been playing me from the start."
"No—"
Another slap. Harder.
"Lie to me again. See what happens."
She stopped.
Not because she was afraid. Not because she had anything to hide. But because he was right—partially. She had known something was wrong. From the moment she'd walked into the estate. From the moment she'd seen the way the staff looked at each other. From the moment Valentina had smiled at her with that too-sharp, too-calculated expression.
She hadn't known about Vicente Cruz.
But she'd known about something.
His hand found her hair. Fisted it. Yanked her head back.
"Talk."
"I don't know about Vicente."
"Then what do you know?"
"I know your wife doesn't love you."
The words landed like a bomb.
His rhythm stuttered. Stopped. He was still inside her—still hard, still buried to the hilt—but he wasn't moving. Wasn't speaking. Wasn't doing anything except breathing.
"What did you say?"
"She doesn't love you." Roxy turned her head. Just enough to see his face. "She wants your power. She wants your money. She wants your name. But she doesn't want you."
"You don't know anything."
"I know what a woman looks like when she's performing. I've been doing it my whole life."
His hand tightened in her hair. Tightened until it hurt.
"You're wrong."
"Am I?"
He pulled out. Spun her around. Slammed her back against the table—her shoulders hitting the metal, her legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. He pushed into her again. Different angle. Deeper.
"You're wrong," he repeated.
"Prove it."
He fucked her like he was trying to. Like he was trying to prove that he was in control, that he was the one who mattered, that she was nothing but a body beneath him. But she saw it in his eyes—the doubt, the crack, the fear that maybe she was right.
She wrapped her arms around his neck. Pulled him closer. Let her mouth brush his ear.
"She's outside," she whispered. "Right now. Standing in your hallway. Waiting. Do you think she's worried? Do you think she's worried about you?"
He groaned. Not in pleasure. In something closer to pain.
"Do you think she's ever worried about you?"
"Shut up."
"Do you think she's ever loved you?"
"Shut up."
"I don't."
He came.
His body convulsed. His hips slammed into her one last time. He buried his face in her neck and let out a sound that was half-growl, half-sob. She felt him empty inside her—felt every pulse, every throb—and she held onto him.
Not because she wanted to.
Because she needed to.
When it was over, he stayed there. Still inside her. Still pressed against her. His breathing was ragged, his body slick with sweat. She could feel his heart pounding against her chest.
"I'm not wrong," she said.
He pulled out. Stepped back. Wouldn't look at her.
"Get dressed."
"I don't have anything to wear. You ripped my dress."
He shrugged off his jacket. Held it out without looking. She took it, pulled it around her shoulders. It smelled like him—coffee, sandalwood, sweat.
"I'll find out," she said.
He looked at her.
"About your wife. About Vicente. About whatever's happening here. I'll find out."
"And if I stop you?"
"You won't."
"Why not?"
She smiled. The not-nice smile. The one that showed her teeth.
"Because you need me."
He didn't deny it.
She walked past him, toward the stairs, up toward the light. The severed hand was still on the floor behind her—gray, dead, but only half the story.
The other half was waiting upstairs.
Valentina.
Roxy climbed the stairs and stepped back into the world.
The hallway stretched long and narrow, lined with dark wood paneling and oil paintings of dead men. Roxy's bare feet left prints on the marble—she'd lost her heels somewhere in the interrogation room, probably when Damien had bent her over the table.
His jacket hung loose on her shoulders, the sleeves past her fingertips. She pulled it tighter, smelled him on the collar.
Valentina stood at the end of the hall.
She was exactly where Roxy had said she'd be—leaning against the wall beside the dining room door, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Her silver dress caught the chandelier light. Her hair was perfect. Her makeup was flawless.
She looked like a woman who hadn't heard a single scream from the basement.
"Roxanne," she said. "You're dripping."
Roxy looked down. Semen traced a slow line down her inner thigh. She didn't wipe it away.
"Your husband's got stamina," she said.
Valentina's smile didn't waver. "I wouldn't know."
"Sure you wouldn't."
The words hung between them like smoke. Valentina pushed off the wall, took a step closer—close enough that Roxy could smell her perfume. Jasmine and something sharp. Something chemical.
"He trusts you," Valentina said. "That's interesting."
"He doesn't trust anyone."
"He trusts you enough to fuck you in his father's interrogation room. That's not nothing."
Roxy laughed. It came out ragged. "You keeping score?"
"I'm keeping inventory." Valentina reached out—touched the collar of Damien's jacket where it sat on Roxy's shoulder. "Everything in this house belongs to me. Everything. Including him."
"You sure about that?"
Valentina's eyes flickered. Just once. Just enough.
"Go clean up," she said. "You smell like my husband."
She turned and walked away, heels clicking on marble, and Roxy watched her go. Watched the way she moved—controlled, deliberate, every step a performance. The woman was good. Roxy had to give her that.
But she wasn't good enough.
Roxy found her room on the second floor—a guest suite with silk sheets and a window that overlooked the gardens. She showered. Washed the blood from her teeth, the sweat from her skin, the evidence of Damien from between her thighs. The water ran cold before she was done.
She wrapped herself in a robe and sat on the bed.
Then she opened her laptop.
She'd done some hacking in college. Nothing serious—just enough to change a grade here, access a professor's email there. She'd gotten good at it. Not expert-level, not black-hat, but good enough to know her way around a firewall.
The estate's network was locked down tight. Encrypted. Monitored.
She got in anyway.
It took her forty minutes. Forty minutes of typing, of backtracking, of finding weak points in the security grid. Forty minutes of sweat and focus and the kind of concentration that made everything else disappear.
Then she was in.
The file system spread out before her like a map. Folders within folders. Documents. Spreadsheets. Emails. She clicked through them one by one, scanning, searching, looking for anything that might explain why a dead man had walked into Damien Moretti's house.
What she found was worse than she'd imagined.
Valentina's personal files were buried deep—encrypted, password-protected, hidden behind three layers of security. Roxy cracked them in twenty minutes. The woman had used her wedding date as her password. Pathetic.
The files were a landmine.
Bank accounts in the Cayman Islands. Wire transfers to shell companies in Panama. Emails from men with no names, no faces, no identities. Contracts. Deals. Arrangements.
And photographs.
Roxy scrolled through them slowly. Vicente Cruz at a restaurant in Barcelona. Vicente Cruz on a beach in Thailand. Vicente Cruz in a hotel room in Buenos Aires—alive, healthy, drinking wine with a woman who was not his wife.
The date stamp was three months after his funeral.
She kept digging. Found more. Phone records. Text messages. A trail of evidence that led from Valentina's personal phone to a burner number registered in Mexico.
The messages were short. Cryptic. But they told a story.
He's asking questions. Can't control him much longer.
You'll have to.
I can't. Not yet. Not until the will is signed.
Then make sure it is.
Roxy read them three times. Then she started printing.
Pages and pages of evidence. Bank records. Photographs. Text messages. Everything she needed to prove that Valentina Moretti had been lying to her husband for years—that she'd been working with Vicente Cruz, that she'd faked his death, that she was planning something.
Something that involved Damien's money. Damien's power. Damien's life.
Roxy connected the dots. One by one. Line by line. She saw the whole picture now—the funeral, the sealed casket, the convenience of a closed investigation. She saw Valentina's fingerprints on every piece of it.
She saw the truth.
By the time she was done, the printer had run out of paper twice. She'd filled an envelope—thick, heavy, stuffed with evidence—and sealed it with her own hands.
She got dressed. Black jeans. Gray t-shirt. One of Damien's jackets—the one he'd given her, still smelling like him. She didn't need to look good. She needed to look serious.
Then she went to find him.
He was in his study. Alone. The door was cracked, light spilling into the hallway. She pushed it open without knocking.
He looked up from his desk. His eyes were tired. His hair was a mess. He looked like a man who'd spent the last hour staring at the same wall, trying to figure out where his life had gone wrong.
"What do you want?"
She walked to his desk. Set the envelope down in front of him.
"What's this?"
"Open it."
He looked at the envelope. Looked at her. His hand didn't move.
"I did some research," she said. "While you were down there feeling sorry for yourself. I got into your wife's files. Her secret files. The ones she thought no one would ever find."
His jaw tightened.
"She's been working with Vicente Cruz," Roxy said. "She faked his death. She's been keeping him alive—hidden—for years. The texts are in there. The bank records. The photographs. She's planning something, Damien. Something big. Something that ends with you dead and her in control."
He didn't speak. Didn't move.
"I know it's a lot," she said. "I know you don't want to believe it. But it's the truth. All of it."
Silence.
Long. Heavy. The kind of silence that fills a room and makes it hard to breathe.
Then he reached for the envelope.
Roxy stepped back. Toward the door. Toward the hallway. She'd done what she came to do. The rest was up to him.
"I would stand beside you," she said.
He looked up.
"Build an empire with you. For you." She didn't smile. Didn't blink. "I'm not your wife. I'm not going to lie to you. I'm not going to use you. If you want me, I'm here. If you don't, I'll walk out that door and you'll never see me again."
She turned.
Walked to the door.
Paused.
"Read it," she said. "Every page. Every word. And when you're done—when you know the truth—you'll know where to find me."
She closed the door softly behind her.
The hallway was empty. The house was quiet. Somewhere, in another part of the estate, Valentina was probably making plans. Probably thinking she'd won.
She had no idea what was coming.
Roxy walked to her room. Closed the door. Locked it. Then she sat on the bed and waited—for the explosion, for the reckoning, for whatever came next.
Her father had raised a killer.
But he'd also raised a survivor.
And right now, survival meant patience.
She'd give Damien one hour. If he didn't come to her by then, she'd leave. She'd disappear. She'd find another way to burn Valentina Moretti to the ground.
But something told her she wouldn't have to.
Something told her he'd come.
She lay back on the bed, pulled the jacket up to her chin, and breathed in the scent of him—coffee, sandalwood, and something darker underneath.
Something like war.
The clock on the nightstand ticked.
She counted the seconds.
And waited.